Good Girls

by Henry, Max

  “You what?” he prompts.

  I glance over his shoulder to find a shorter, well-built guy with sandy brown hair who I haven’t had the displeasure of meeting yet. “I guess I would have at least been sure to stand on your foot if I had known it was you.”

  Johnson chuckles, low and spiteful. “That the best you got?”

  Unfortunately, when you’ve had the crassness trained right out of you, then yes, that’s the best a girl like me can come up with.

  “Excuse me.” I attempt to walk around him, yet he places one long leg before me, his muscular thigh blocking my path.

  Johnson slides himself across, ultimately penning me in considering his friend holds the last position. “You know, I’ve been trying to find you.”

  I frown. “So you can harass me some more after our encounter in biology?”

  “Figures I should have looked in here,” he continues as though I never said a thing, leaning in so that the mix of leather and his cologne surround me. “Where else would a snotty bitch who needs her meals prepared for her come?” His gaze drops to my chest as he straightens. “Sorry, we don’t have waiters for you both. We aren’t that fancy around here.”

  I scowl at his callous remark and promptly skirt the menace to find safety in numbers with Colt. My brother twists to eyeball Johnson and his friend after I take my seat with a huff.

  “I’m not sure I can crack this hierarchy,” I grumble.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only the first week,” he scolds before turning to take the boys in one more time. “What was that all about anyway?”

  “He seems to think purchasing food in here is a disgusting habit of rich kids.” I eye the boys as they stride out of the café, empty-handed.

  “Odd.” Colt shrugs and fingers the last of his lunch. “For people whose families own most of the land around here, they sure act like commoners, don’t you think?”

  I glare at Colt. “We’re no better than they are. In fact, we’re lesser now.”

  He slaps the last of his Panini on the tray and then stands with an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe to you, but not me.”

  I watch Colt as he marches to the counter and dumps his spent meal beside the register. The lunch-lady turns her head, seemingly confused at his arrogance, and then resumes restocking the cabinets.

  My shoulders drop, much to my disgust, yet I let the insubordinate behaviour slide for now. What does posture matter when people already judge you for who you are and not what you do?

  I finish my meal in silence, opting to leave my phone tucked away in my satchel. I couldn’t stomach social media right now. Not when my entire feed is filled with happy snaps of the things I should be doing rather than eat an average meal at a country school. I could be having lunch with Libby and Greer at our favourite restaurant by the art gallery, discussing our upcoming social calendar, who’s dating who, and which destination we’d like for our end of year holiday.

  All the things, that while not necessarily better, are familiar.

  I down the last bite of the salad, aware that the leafy contents have hardly filled me for the afternoon, and then check the time on my watch. Five minutes until class. The lunch-lady gives me a smile when I set my tray down a lot gentler than Colt, and head for the exit.

  Warm sunshine caresses my face and collarbones when I step out into the adjacent courtyard. I take a second to close my eyes and inhale the sweet scent of the flowers in the raised beds, and then reopen them to head for the bathrooms.

  My gaze falls on the source of my confidence-crisis: Johnson. He sits wide-legged on a low stone retaining wall that surrounds a long rectangular garden bed. The white-haired girl from my first day perches to his left, her face an unmissable scowl as she watches two girls chat cross-legged on the lush green lawn. Somehow the two of them are quite the union in their shared dislike of the world.

  I naively thought my superior upbringing would set me in good stead to take the helm of this mud and hay fed school. How wrong was I? One week, and it’s abundantly clear who runs the school.

  And as far as I can tell, they’re not the sort to vacate their thrones without good reason.

  Guess Colt and I will have to give them one.

  Light rain peppers the windshield when we pull up to Ingrid’s weekend acreage estate. Her parents swear the open spaces fuel their creative juices, something they need to nurture if the Marvonts wish to keep their advertising agency at the top of the food chain.

  Think of your favourite advert on the tele, and chances are, Ingrid’s parents wrote the creative brief for it.

  “If you get any trouble,” Colt reminds me, “then get out to the car and call me to come take you home.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say with a dismissive roll of my eyes.

  Although, after seeing Greer waiting for me in the narrow dry strip provided by the eaves of the house, I’m not so sure. She doesn’t greet me with the same voraciousness as last week, instead wringing her hands while I walk the topiary-lined sandstone path.

  “Whatever it is, spit it out,” I instruct, pausing with her while Colt continues inside.

  She huffs, eyes rolling back briefly. “It’s Libby. She’s on the warpath.”

  “Why?” Surely this has nothing to do with me.

  Greer glances indoors. “She accused Arthur of cheating on her.”

  My jaw drops. Those two have been together for so long. They’re the perfect couple; we all look up to them. “With who?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she does, either. But she’s mad, Lace, so tread lightly, okay?”

  “Sure.” It’s not as though Greer knows about what Richard did, so she has no reason to believe I’m already a target.

  I walk inside with the same conviction I always have. I belong here. I have as much right to a future at the top of the social ladder as the rest of the Chosen. The wealth we lost, that was Dad’s. Not mine. I can still prove myself.

  I follow Greer to the array of drinks on ice, displayed on a long low table in the middle of the guest lounge. Selecting a clean wine glass, I fill it two-thirds with a rich red and then opt to take the bottle with me as well. I’ll probably need the top up soon enough.

  The heat of Richard’s glare hits me before his words do. “You stupid bitch.”

  The room falls quiet, save for the low bump of some wordless dance hit’s bass beat.

  “Who invited you?” Richard stalks toward me, every part the decadent devil in his tailored black suit, sans jacket.

  Must have been at work with daddy today. “The host did,” I snap back, over his haughtiness already.

  He nods, huffing out his nose as he comes to stand toe to toe with me. “She won’t make that mistake again.”

  Greer shudders against my arm.

  I stare the uptight jerk down. “Really? You control who comes and goes in everyone’s house now?”

  “Only for the Chosen,” he grits between clenched teeth.

  “Did you forget?” I take a casual sip of my wine, despite my shaking hand. “I am one of the Chosen.”

  “Were.” His scathing gaze drifts the length of me. “Since you’re flat broke now, I can’t see why you should retain the honour.”

  “Richard,” Greer warns. “Leave her alone.”

  He ignores her, leaning in close. “How much would you do to keep your status, Lace? What’s on offer?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He leans back, slinging his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “All I’m saying is perhaps if you do us a favour, we could do one for you and hold your spot open.”

  “A favour?” I lift an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  The crowd loses interest in our conversation, the hum of the party steadily growing louder around us.

  “You’re a pretty girl. A man appreciates that; a nice skirt on his arm.”

  I sigh, whispering to Greer to just go. There’s no point giving him another second of my time.

  “What’s i
t going to be, Lacey?” Richard asks loudly, enjoying himself far too much. “Shovelling shit on the farm, or fuck toy for the wealthy?”

  I toss my drink in his face. Damn him. I wasted half a glass of good wine on his arrogant arse.

  Richard’s hands lift, stopping an inch short of touching the rivers of rouge that run from his temple and cheek. “Leave,” he growls as titters start amongst the onlookers. “Leave before I goddamn make you!”

  “Like you did last week?”

  “What?” Greer frowns.

  “He picked me up and set me outside like a damn dog,” I tell her, my boldness growing. “But you know what, Ricky?” I grin, well aware he hates that nickname. “I arrived tonight, intent on having a good time. You, however, I can only assume arrived with the intent to make an arse of yourself considering you’ve done a bloody good job of it.”

  Several guests cover their mouths in equal parts surprise and shock as I walk off, pouring myself another drink while I do. Ingrid pushes her way through the crowd, her smoky eyes glancing between a raging Richard and myself.

  “Lace?”

  “Oh, hey.” I wave off a couple of girls, urging them to continue with their party. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m having fun already.”

  She frowns, clearly confused.

  “Some people are so quick to forget a friend when they move out of the area, but I’m glad I have a girlfriend like you.” I link my arm with hers, glaring at Richard as I do. “How was your week? Tell me everything.”

  I collect Greer and lead our trio outdoors while Ingrid takes a last look at our belittled ringleader and lets out a snort.

  “Did you actually do that, Lace?”

  I nod, unable to hide my amusement.

  Her darkened eyes go wide before she leans around me to address Greer. “What happened to the real Lacey Williams?”

  I guess she learned how to stand up for herself.

  “He won’t let you away with that,” Greer notes, equal parts excited and shocked.

  “I’m sure he won’t.” But what’s he going to do that could be worse than what has already happened to me?

  “I honestly thought when you shifted we’d never hear from you again,” Ingrid reveals.

  I frown at her, releasing her arm so we can all settle on vacant chairs poolside. “Why?”

  She glances indoors, the muted outdoor lights highlighting her red curls. “I don’t know.” She struggles to hold my gaze, opting to look at the ground beside me instead. “I guess we all thought you’d be…”

  “Embarrassed,” Greer finishes for her.

  “Because I’m poor?” I nestle into the seat cushions, my earlier bout of bravado slowly melting away.

  “Well, yeah.” Ingrid reclines on the lounger; long legs perfectly positioned to showcase her slim calves. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Sure,” I blurt. “But babes, I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person I was when we lived here.”

  “How will you keep up, though?” Greer asks innocently. “You can’t afford new clothes, or to go on holiday with us. Won’t it be hard?”

  “I’ll work it out,” I mumble into my wine before taking a healthy swig.

  I appreciate their concern, but every question, every time they state the obvious, it whittles away at my hope that before long I’ll find a way to be back here with the friends I love.

  My hope is all I have left.

  “Where’s Libby?” I ask. I’m not sure I saw her indoors at all.

  “Her and Arthur are having a ‘conversation’,” Ingrid drawls, eyes rolled. “I don’t know why she thinks he’s been unfaithful; he’s always with her or the other guys. When would he have the time?”

  “If he wanted to, he’d find a way,” Greer mumbles into her lap. Her hands fidget with an invisible thread on her skirt.

  Ingrid exchanges a look with me as though to say “oops.” Greer’s parents divorced two years ago after her mother found her father banging the interior designer on their brand-new marble island counter.

  “What else is new?” I ask, leaning back on my free hand while I raise my wine in the other.

  I don’t get a chance to find out.

  “You think you’re something, huh?” Christian steps from the shadows, hands in pockets. He cuts an imposing figure, his six-foot-one frame towering over where we laze on the outdoor furniture. “Lose your money, your throne, and somehow you come back with more balls than ever. I guess those country boys must be giving it to you deep, huh? Borrowing some of theirs?”

  I plaster a bored look on my face, urging my anger not to overtake, and curl my lip. “Go away, Christian.”

  “You ever wonder why none of the Chosen men made a move on you?”

  I catch Ingrid’s panicked look in my periphery. Still, I stay locked to the jerk before me. “Figured you were afraid of what you couldn’t control.”

  He barks a laugh. “Hardly. A good polo player will always choose the reliable steed over the faster, unmanageable one. You,” he tips his chin toward me, “are the latter, Lacey.”

  “Hear that girls,” I say, glancing at Ingrid and then Greer. “You’re nothing more than an easy ride for these guys.”

  Both avert their gazes. Christian smiles.

  Oh, I see how it is.

  Money over morals, right?

  “You know what?” I rise, collecting the remainder of the wine in the bottle. “I’ve about had enough of this party tonight.” I toss back the last of what remains in the glass and then thrust it at Christian’s chest.

  He snatches the glassware from my hand as I let go.

  “I’ll call you during the week, girls.”

  “See ya, Lace,” Greer murmurs.

  Ingrid remains quiet. Her lack of response speaks volumes.

  Head held high, shoulders back, I stride through the house and outdoors without addressing a single wicked glance that’s tossed my way.

  Only when I reach Colt’s SUV, do I let the frustration take over. My legs buckle, and I drop to the running board. The wine sloshes in the bottle; my head turned so that I can tip it back and down three large gulps of the awareness elixir.

  If I’d known how much clarity a little tipple could bring to a situation, I might have taken up drinking a lot sooner.

  Jesus—I totally am my mother’s daughter.

  “I seriously can’t believe you did that,” Colt says, shaking his head as he drives. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  He’s mad. I get it. We’d barely been at the party an hour when I pulled the emergency exit strategy on him. “Would you rather I let him treat me like dirt?”

  “Let him do what he wants, and then carry on anyway,” he states. “How the heck is tossing wine in Richard’s face going to help in your goal of returning to Riverbourne?” He glances across at where I still grip the bottle in the passenger seat. “Since when did you drink, anyway?”

  “Since our living situation gave me rise to.” I take another sip to punctuate my point, despite the fact I feel as though one more drop might be enough to make me hurl.

  “You can’t go around making enemies,” Colt says softly. “These people are our friends.”

  “Actually,” I say, gesturing with the bottle, “it seems that only some of them are. Occasions like this only prove who stands on what side.”

  “Christ, Lace.”

  “Oh, come on.” Damn this alcohol loosens my opinions right up. “As if you haven’t noticed how Richard and Christian were quick to cut us off the second Dad was locked up.”

  “Maybe you,” he mumbles.

  My head jerks back. “What?”

  “They’re still the same with me,” he drops with a shrug.

  “Of course.” My grip tightens on the neck of the wine. Boys. They’ll have each other’s back, but those pesky women… “It’s bullshit, don’t you think?”

  “What is?” He eases back in the seat as we hit the open road between Riverbourne and Arcadia.

&nb
sp; “That you boys have it all made, and us girls, well, we have to be ‘pretty’ and ‘proper’ to have any value.”

  “You never had a problem with this before,” he levels, glancing over with his eyebrows raised.

  “I know.” I lift the bottle. “Consider me enlightened.” The image of the bold girl with white hair flashes to mind. “The girls at Arcadia don’t seem so wrapped up with appearances.”

  “They also seem feral,” Colt grumbles. “I don’t think they’d know the top end of a dress from the hem.”

  “You’re such an ignorant jerk. You know that?” I say with a laugh.

  He grins, patting my knee. “That’s why I always win. I don’t let my conscience get in the way.” His tone softens. “Just play the game, Lace. You don’t have to like the rules, but if you stick to the plan, you’ll come out a champion.”

  “I guess.”

  I spend the remainder of our drive in contemplative silence, the wine causing me to almost nod off a couple of times. The bump and jerk of the SUV as we turn into our driveway snaps me from my semi-coherent daze.

  “Home sweet home,” Colt drawls, eyes hard as he stares at the plain brick exterior of our rented abode.

  Neither of us appears to be in a hurry to exit the car.

  “Do you think this will be forever?” I ask.

  Colt shrugs, his fingers flexing on the wheel. “I don’t know anything for sure anymore.” He exits the vehicle without another word, the slam of his door leaving me in the dark after the interior light fades.

  I swirl the last of the red wine around the base of the bottle, unwilling to drink it now that my tongue feels like carpet and my stomach knots in protest. Instead, I climb out of the Explorer and decant the liquor onto the gravel drive.

  It feels like an age ago that I tossed the drink at Richard, Ingrid’s house another world away now that I’m back where the sound of distant traffic barely reaches our ears. The country is quiet—so quiet. Another time I might have liked it, but now… I guess it feels ominous, as though I have no idea what awaits around the corner for me.

  I suppose I don’t.

  After all, if I could foresee the future at least a little, then I might have known our lifestyle could never last.